


Auto

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Autofellatio, Bickering, Boys In Love, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Farce, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Idiots in Love, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Multi, Polyamory, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Mishaps, Spanking with a twist, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: John wants to learn to perform one of Sherlock's naughty tricks. No-one emerges intact. Because, you know, it's them.





	Auto

**Author's Note:**

> A one-shot idea that wouldn't go away. Forgive me. With profound thanks to LadyGlinda for encouraging me throughout my down days! x

Sherlock emerged from the shower at 221B, a blue towel wrapped round his waist.

He went back into his room and was met by what could only be described as an eyeful.

“Oh, really, Watson. Give it up,” he drawled.

John scowled at him. Not an easy feat for a man in his rather baroque position – legs over his head, feet hovering above the pillow; bare arse wobbling at the ceiling, undercarriage fully exposed.

“Shut up! I’m nearly there,” said the red-faced doctor in a strained voice. The sinews in his neck stood out as he forced his head forwards, and propped his hips further up off the bed with his hands. It looked (and if the man could only admit it, also felt) rather painful. His hard cock bounced tantalisingly close to his open mouth. Close. Close-ish. But not nearly close enough.

It was pitiful really, thought the great detective.

“Nowhere near,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.

“Help me out then,” whined John, still trying manfully to reach. He poked his tongue out, but was some distance away from being able to even lick himself. It was deeply frustrating.

Sherlock stripped off his towel and stood watching, fascinated to see his lover so eager to humiliate himself.

“No. Even with help, you’ll never manage it.”

Irritation made John tense and he collapsed in temporary admission of defeat, exhaling loudly. He must remember to try and breathe next time.

“Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence, dickhead!” he said, glaring at his smug, shower-fresh lover.

Sherlock shook his head equitably.

“You simply aren’t the correct build for it.”

John sat up, bristling.

“Are you taking the piss?! Calling me shortarse? Saying I’ve got a small dick?!”

He looked ready to pounce and Sherlock gulped inwardly, though he maintained his cool demeanour.

“I think evidence suggests otherwise,” he said, truthfully. “You are frankly disproportionately well-endowed with a rather deliciously thick appendage of which I am an eternally grateful recipient. You’ve got a nice big cock, all right, Watson?” He rummaged in his wardrobe to select his clothes for the day. “Fishing for compliments…,” he muttered to himself.

John frowned and nodded.

“Bloody right. So why don’t you reckon I can manage to suck myself off?”

Sherlock turned back with a derisive snort.

“No, seriously,” said John, curious to know. “Why not?”

Sherlock sighed, cursing himself for being drawn in, but utterly unable to resist the presentation of data. It was shooting fish in a barrel, really.

“For the following unarguable reasons,” he said as he paced, ticking facts off on his fingers. “You have a very stiff back, Captain Watson. Very poor flexibility in your spine, particularly around the thoracic vertebrae. T11 and T12 are, in medical terms, buggered. Your lumbar region is also distinctly dodgy. L1, for example. Practically fused.”

“You’re a sodding chiropractor now, are you?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be flippant. I’m not insulting you.”

John looked at him dangerously.

“No?”

Sherlock breezed on regardless.

“Not at all. It’s merely a consequence of an entire career spent carrying heavy military backpacks. What are they - around 80-100 pounds? And you were at it for years after basic training. That would account for it, even if you hadn’t been injured in battle. Running through deserts, mountains and minefields with medical equipment, let alone your years of study, hunched over text books and bodies. It all takes its toll on mobility in later life.”

John swivelled to sit on the edge of the bed, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Later life?! You cheeky fucker. I’m only a few years older than you!”

“Don’t be sour, John, it’s very unattractive,” admonished Sherlock, though John was pleased to note that he took a small step back, just in case he needed to run.

Sherlock continued his rationale, calculating exactly how fast he’d need to be to reach the door before Watson.

“Another reason, should you need one, for your inability to perform the bend required for autofellatio: your natural shape is stocky, square, and very muscular, and thus you are liable to get stuck. You are not lithe and pliable, nor graceful like me.”

Sherlock gestured to his nude body, presenting himself like a game show prize. He turned, just to make sure John could really take in the litheness and grace. He gave his bottom a little wiggle to punctuate the point.

John refused to be turned on when Sherlock was being insufferable. He absolutely refused.

“Graceful, nothing,” he scoffed. “I’ve seen you pissed. Not very graceful when you’re falling down stairs with no pants on, are you?”

Sherlock ignored this ungentlemanly comment.

“That never happened. It was all a dream. But even if it were true…”

“Is true! You had a bruise on your arse the shape of Germany for weeks!”

“Rubbish. Anyway, it does not contradict the fact that you have stiff hip joints and that your anatomical composition makes the requisite angles and contortions nigh on impossible. You will never be able to suck your own cock, John Watson. Live with it.”

“Bollocks.”

“Nor those either. I speak only the truth.”

John stood, hands on his hips, cock at half-mast.

“You just don’t want anyone upstaging you, do you?” he said, knowingly. “You just _love_ being the only one who can do it. But I’m going to utterly piss on your bonfire, mate. I am going to suck my own cock even if it means a slipped disc.”

“It _does_ mean that,” insisted Sherlock, pleasantly.

“Pfft. Whatever. Either help me or leave me to it. Your choice.”

John flopped back onto the bed and raised his legs, preparing for another go.

Sherlock could not help but gawp at the pink flesh of his partner’s underside as it was revealed once again. John, all naked and folded up…

“You really are tiresome sometimes,” Lock huffed, moving slowly to the bed. He was not quite ready to give up the fight just yet. “Erotically sound, of course. But tiresome. It’s not enough that you have three cocks to suck on a regular basis, and three mouths available to suck you whenever you require it. But is this enough for you? No. You have to have a fourth. You complete tart.”

John lowered his legs and pointed at Sherlock in sheer outrage.

“Says you! You’re the one that started all this. Never seen anyone do it before you. Autofellatio is the most narcissistic sexual act known to man, short of actually being able to fuck yourself. And you’d be the first to do that if it was physically possible, you vain twat!”

“Why do you want to do it as well, then?!” whined Sherlock, stamping his foot. “It’s _my_ trick!”

John sat up in triumph.

“Ha! I knew it!”

“Well…,” blustered Sherlock, flushing pink at his unintentional admission. It was rather a silly thing to be precious about. He shrugged and sat next to his flatmate, his shapely lips quirking up at the edges in wry amusement.

Their eyes met and they broke.

“Why do you think I want to do it?” giggled John, putting a hand to his cock to plump it up. “Be awesome.”

Sherlock never could maintain a snit with John giggling and wanking at him at the same time.

“It is rather,” he giggled back, leaning in for a peck on the nose. “Fine. I shall lend my assistance. I’ll take it as a compliment. You always have looked up to me. And no, that’s not a crack about your height!”

John growled, snatched up a pillow and whacked it into his lover’s startled face.

The detective let out a howl of outrage and bundled into him for an impromptu wrestling match. Honour was at stake. But sadly, he was never any match for a furious and randy Watson. He was grabbed into a headlock, and they fell into a writhing heap, jabbing and poking at each other as viciously as they could through giggles. Eventually, as it always did, fighting became tickling, which became rubbing, and frotting, and snogging.

“Is this because I wouldn’t give you a blowjob when you woke up?” husked Lock between kisses.

John chuckled.

“Maybe. Just thought I’d give it a go myself. If you won’t,” he said, slyly.

Sherlock tutted.

“Don’t be absurd. I’ll give you one now. It was ridiculously early! You can’t just have it on tap all the time!”

John glared with narrowed eyes.

“You’re the biggest hypocrite outside of Westminster, Holmes, you know that, don’t you?”

On reflection, perhaps 5am had been a bit early to coax a seduction. But John had woken up by instinct, usually expecting Rosie to start making noise at this time. His unconscious alarm clock didn’t realise that she was at Greg’s, being babysat by their other two partners, who had stepped in to allow Holmes and Watson to get a bit of work done undisturbed. They were all due to reunite at the flat this morning. John had been hoping to sneak a bit of action beforehand.

Sherlock had been uncooperative – far too tired to suck John back to sleep before sunrise. The current case was exhausting. He’d merely grumbled and rolled over. But he had sprung out of bed two hours later with a head full of ideas, dashing out to note them down while they were still fresh, leaving John in bed, horny and irritable.

The attempt at self-sucking while Sherlock showered was, of course, calculated to get his attention, and to prove that what Holmes could do, Watson could do. Though John would never admit it. He didn’t need to.

Sherlock grinned down at him knowingly.

“OK, John. I’ll help you suck yourself off, before your daughter brings those two imbeciles back home. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

John kissed him swiftly and grinned.

“I won’t."

"Perhaps I ought to demonstrate first," offered Sherlock, in a tone which precluded refusal. "Just in case you've missed the finer points of it."

He lay down, smirking in self-satisfaction. 

"Now, you must leave yourself enough room to manoeuvre," he said, shuffling down the bed. "And you lift the legs like so. You support the lower back thusly. You breathe. You contract the abdominals, and push up from the hips..."

He narrated as he performed the act he was most proud of having perfected as a teenager. He thrust his hips and bottom up into the air, letting his lanky legs drop easily over his head so that his feet landed neatly on the pillows behind. He exhaled in one smooth breath, and efficiently folded himself inwards, his swanlike neck extended and his sensual mouth agape. His long prick slipped effortlessly between his babydoll lips, and he suckled on it, moaning as he turned himself on. 

John gawped at him, as he always did when he witnessed this lascivious amateur burlesque act. Sherlock's lissom form seemed almost evolutionarily adapted for the task. He was the absolute precise dimensions, with the exact flexibility suitable for the task. His biology was simply fitted for the purpose. Nature had been kind. Though nurture had played its vital role. Years of practice and filthy exercises had given Sherlock Holmes the edge when it came to self-pleasure.

Just as he was getting far too involved in his self-administered blowjob, John slapped at his upturned backside, unable to resist the target. The flesh wobbled invitingly, but he steeled himself to ignore it. There was a danger that this would end up being all about Sherlock Holmes. Again. John wanted his moment. John was going to upstage the little deviant if it was the last thing he did. Bad back be damned.

"You've made your point, stop sucking!" he ordered.

Lock whined and let himself go with a wet slurp. 

"Ooh, but I'm so good at it!" 

He unfolded himself with slinky, effortless grace, and lay flat again, looking inordinately, infuriatingly pleased with himself. John gave him a fond, exasperated look. 

"All right, clever clogs. My turn. Now grab my ankles and help me over.”

He began to assume the position but Sherlock stopped him.

“No, no. The technique is quite wrong. For a beginner anyway," he sniffed. "Turn around to face the headboard, and put your feet up as high as you can get them. I’ll put a pillow under your bum to help.”

John scrambled to comply.

“So kind,” he said, and walked his feet up the wall.

***

“She’s out like a light, love,” said Greg, in a low voice, as he manoeuvred the buggy through the Baker Street front door.

Mycroft smiled fondly, and grabbed the foot bar of the baby vehicle to help Gregory lift it up the stairs, pausing only to readjust the door-knocker to the correct position before closing it.

“It’s rather incredible how motion soothes these tiny people to sleep, isn’t it? Perhaps I ought to commission an adult-sized one, for Lock’s insomniac nights,” he mused. "I could wheel him round the block."

Greg chuckled.

“Don’t give me ideas. That’s just what he wants, being pushed around in a buggy, every whim catered for. We baby him enough as it is. Be bottle feeding next, and I draw the line at nappies.”

They entered the flat quietly so as not to disturb the young Miss Watson. But their ears were met with a highly suspicious sound. Silence.

“Still in bed, lazy bastards,” said Greg. “Go and get ‘em. I’ll put madam in the cot while the going’s good.” He headed for the small utility room they’d decorated up as the baby bedroom, wheeling the buggy carefully to try and sneak the change of environment past the sleeping occupant.

Mycroft smirked and went in search of his other beloveds. John’s room was empty. No great surprise. It was mostly used when three or four of them slept at the flat. He moved on.

From behind Sherlock’s door he could make out signs of life. Or, more accurately, the intolerable sound of Little Brother imparting one of his Lessons.

“The key is breathing, Watson,” he was saying, airily. “It’s no good holding your breath. It makes you stiffer, but not in a good way. You must take up yoga if you want to try this again. Now, inhale through your nose. Fill your lungs as much as possible. And when you breathe out through your mouth, you push just a tiny bit further. Your muscles relax on the exhalation, do you see? You get a centimetre lower, then hold that position and repeat. Don’t come up. Just breathe in, and on the out breath you move again, a little further each time.”

“Fine. Got it. Breathing in,” said John’s muffled voice. "And out..."

Mycroft frowned suspiciously. Surely they weren’t attempting…

He opened the door.

“Oh, good God!”

They were.

“Hello, Mycroft,” said John, huffing and puffing from upside down.

The elder Holmes raised an insouciant eyebrow. Sherlock grinned at him cheekily from his position standing on the bed, propped against the wall with John’s ankles on his shoulders. He waggled one of John’s feet at his brother in greeting.

“Hello, darlings,” said Mycroft, with as much casualness as he could muster. “You really ought to know better, the pair of you.”

“What?!” protested John, sweating from effort. “ _He_ does it all the time.”

Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, gazing in fascination in spite of himself.

“Yes, but baby brother is part feline. You are…”

John twisted his neck, grimacing slightly. “Short?!” he panted. “It’s not about height, it’s about proportion and technique!”

Mycroft stroked his irascible lover’s upturned backside.

“I know, dear, but you do have a rather stiff mid-spine…”

Sherlock laughed delightedly.

“Oh, give it a rest, Myc!” grouched John. “I’ve already had Beginner’s Osteopathy with him, I don’t need you chiming in too.”

Mycroft held his hands up in apology.

“Right you are.”

“Rosie all right?” John was all too aware of the incongruity of the conversation, but he was a good multitasking sort of father.

“Splendid,” confirmed Mycroft. “And mercifully asleep. Gregory is transferring her to the cot as we…speak.”

“Ta, love. Ow, Sherlock, stop pushing!”

“I’m helping!”

Mycroft tilted his head somewhat doubtfully, though his eyes shone with appreciation.

“May I say, if it’s of any consolation, although I have doubts about the success of the endeavour, I do fully appreciate the aesthetics of it? You are quite a juicy sight, Johnny…”

John smirked and squeaked as Sherlock pushed his legs down even further, collapsing him in on himself and opening him up to more intimate scrutiny.

“Am I now?” chuckled John, shifting a tiny bit as he preened.

Mycroft licked his lips. He’d forgotten what he came in here for, but it didn’t seem to matter now.

“Mm. Very much so. In fact…” He trailed off and began stripping off his jacket and loosening his collar.

John did his best to waggle his eyebrows, which was harder than it looked.

“Get you going, does it?”

Mycroft was working at his fly now, making short work of dropping his trousers and underpants, discarding them with uncharacteristic carelessness.

“You with your backside open to the skies? Prick so very, very close to your lips… It does rather ‘get me going’, yes.”

John thrust his hips, feeling the pinch in his back but bravely ignoring it. Being devoured by impressed Holmesian eyes was worth a bit of pain. His cock throbbed in the air, dripping a tiny bit of clear fluid onto his chest. He strained forward again, inching his mouth closer to it, determined to put on a show for them.

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

“Get over here and help, Mycie, I can’t hold his bloody legs all day! He's heavy!”

Mycroft crawled onto the bed and ran his nose up and down John’s soft perineum, inhaling his familiar musky scent. He licked at the base of his balls as they descended with gravitational pull towards John’s eager face, pushing his head between his lover’s spread legs.

“Oh, you are delicious, Johnny…”

Sherlock whined, shuffling and attempting to extract himself from supporting John’s legs.

“Get off, Mycie, I want him!”

“Don’t move, Lock, I’m nearly there!” squeaked John, exhaling and pressing forwards by miniscule degrees.

Sherlock whined and stayed put. Why had he agreed to this? He’d got stuck with the boring end.

“I just want a very little kiss…,” husked Mycroft, and pressed his lips to the pink rosette of John’s hole, running his kittenish tongue delicately round the puckered rim.

John moaned and jerked, unable to stop. His cock grew impossibly harder and his mouth gaped open, trying so hard to reach it, though he almost dislocated his neck in the process.

“Want me to let you down, John?” asked Sherlock, hopefully.

“Nope! Gonna do it, definitely. Just keep supporting me!”

He could smell his own precome and it was turning him on like mad.

Sherlock sighed but nodded as John rolled his hips up again.

“All right. Mycie, you do fingers. But as soon as he gets it in his mouth, we’re swapping and I’m fucking him!”

“Yes, dear. Just let me… Oh, stay there…”

Mycroft’s voice became muffled in hot flesh.

John moaned at the maddening stimulation, going cross-eyed as he saw the head of his prick inching ever closer. He was stretched almost to his physical limit, but he could just…just…

“Ah!” His tongue made contact with his weeping crown, and he tasted himself, the illicit tang sending a heady shiver right through him.

“By George, I think he’s got it,” quipped Mycroft, plunging his face back down between John’s cleft to ravish him.

Sherlock groaned at the sight beneath him. His own prick was rampantly hard and leaking fluid upon John, who barely seemed to notice. Which was actually rather insulting.

John was licking at himself, tickling his slit with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock thrusted into the air, desperate for contact.

“Hurry up, Watson! Please!” he whined with impatience. Time to move things on. Encouragement was needed, so took it upon himself to reach down and press the backs of his lover’s muscular thighs inwards.

John cried out, mostly in pleasure, as the head of his penis slipped between his lips. He gave a little grunt of victory.

It was an odd sensation. But, bloody hell, it was a good one. Like giving an upside down nosh to someone else, and being given one yourself, but kind of not. It was, for want of better description, like 69ing yourself. The taste was familiar and strange at the same time. It sort of felt like cheating. Except it brilliantly wasn’t cheating. It was Advanced Masturbation. It was Wanking 2.0. It was Fellatio For Antisocial Experts. It was naughty. So very naughty…

“Oh, so very  _naughty_ ,” rumbled Mycroft, echoing his thoughts. “There, Lock, you have competition.” He had ceased he oral ministrations, content to indulge his visual senses for the time being.

Sherlock sulked mightily.

“Hmmph! Bet he can’t finish and swallow it!”

“Mmffckngcnnn!”

“Johnny says he fucking can,” translated Mycroft unnecessarily, enjoying himself immensely.

Obscene slurping noises echoed throughout the room as John suckled upon himself. He couldn’t exactly deep-throat it, but he was doing his level best. Despite the twinges in his vertebrae, despite the slightly concerning burn in his muscles, which he simply didn’t have time to worry about now, he pressed on, pushing another inch into his mouth. He was quite a nice thick mouthful, he realised. His blokes were bloody lucky.

He was three inches deep now, and experimented with running his tongue along his ridge then sucking hard, just as he would if it were Lock in his mouth, or Mycie, or Greg.

Shit, Greg! Where was Greg? Greg should totally see this gymnastic miracle he was performing. Not bad for a compact stocky bloke in his (early) forties, with a fucked spine.

“Gwwg!” He attempted. “Gggeh Gwgg!”

As though hearing the summons, the door swung open.

John heard a very flattering gasp of shock.

“What the bloody hell’s going on in here?!” exclaimed Lestrade, his brain short-circuiting at the sight. Lock holding John’s legs; John, mouth full of…himself. Mycroft, head hovering above John’s arse, just breathing on him oh-so-gently… He didn’t know whether to be stunned, appalled, or turned on. He settled for an ambivalent mixture of the three.

“I’m teaching John to autofellate, Greg,” said Sherlock, superfluously, wondering why the D.I. needed to ask such a silly question in the first place.

Greg nodded and wandered towards them like a zombie with a hard-on, completing their little _ménage à quatre._

“This is what you get up to when I’m doing childcare, is it?” he chuckled, raising a dark furry eyebrow.

John snorted wetly, but refused to relinquish his prize for the sake of a smart answer.

Greg took a seat on the other side of the bed, content to watch for now. Content to watch with a hand down his pants, anyway.

Pleasure tingled through John from head to toe as he carried on sucking. When Mycroft slipped a long, tapered finger, wet with spit, into his arse, he nearly bit his own cock off.

“Oh, Johnny…,” crooned Mycroft, loving the clench of smooth muscle against his probing digit. He found what he was searching for almost immediately. The nuclear button.

John wailed, and the vibration of his voice round his erection pushed the unbelievable self-pleasure even higher.

Above him Lock was attempting to rub off against his leg, propping himself between the wall and John.

Greg looked over at his youngest partner as though he were insane, but did his job and reached over to try and help the desperate lad get off.

John felt his legs being dropped. He tensed to take up the slack, almost planking upside down to keep his body in position. It was too good to fail now. He adjusted his hands on his lower back and forced himself forwards.

His cock was throbbing heavily. He could feel it pulsing on his tongue. And Mycie’s finger was pressing just _there_. His balls were tightening irresistibly. He was going to come. He was going to do it. He was going to come in his mouth and swallow it, just like Sherlock said he couldn't.

Shudders began in his lower abdomen, jolting his admittedly rather stiff hips. Blood raced in his ears and he heard his pounding heartbeat loud and clear. His head suffused with pressure from the effort and the strange angle.  

Sherlock was jerking wildly now and pulling at his cock with valiant if awkward effort. He was also trying to keep himself upright, though he wobbled dangerously on the mattress and seemed to be paying less attention than he had been earlier.

John could feel rather than see Greg wanking furiously behind him, and he could hear the slick slap of flesh all around him. Mycie joined in, stripping his sticky member with his free hand while the other worked away at John’s prostate.

Determined to make it across the finish line, John's tongue found the dart-like groove at the head of his cock, and stimulated it beyond bearing. This was it. It was happening.

“Cmmmng! Cmmmng!” he warned, as his pelvis stuttered uncontrollably. Deep groans of encouragement filled his ears. His head span, lightning raced up his spine… Painful lightning, accompanied by a disconcerting creaking noise and a horrid pop.

The intensity of the pleasure in his cock zapped through him at the same time as the intense pain in his back, sending a very confused set of sensations raging down his nervous system. He was having perhaps the best orgasm of his life, and he was in absolute fucking agony.

He pulled away from himself sharply. “Fuck!” he yelled, as he came all over his own face. His back locked out completely, and he was blinded by his own spunk.

Mycroft, having felt the clamping round his finger when John completed, was also reaching his climax, and shot hot streaks of white all over his lover's upturned arse. And Greg likewise, turned on by his lovers' joint pleasure, shot his load over John’s chest.

“Fuck!” was all John could manage at this precise moment, unable to properly articulate his distress.

Sherlock mistook the cry for orgasmic ecstasy. Unable to hold out anymore, he followed suit and came with a loud moan.

“Oh, John, fuck!” he cried, raining yet more semen down upon John’s upward-looking face. As he did so, gravity, long since defied, took her ironic revenge. Sherlock wobbled. He lost his footing and toppled backwards, then lost his grip on John’s legs completely.

John flailed painfully. The sudden pulling of muscles angered his injury even further, and he shouted as he collapsed, completely unable to save himself. His back gave out, and his legs came plummeting heavily and inevitably downwards.

Unfortunately, Mycroft chose this moment to pull away, wondering what on earth was wrong. He barely had time to register that a clonking great right foot was coming at him before it had kicked him on the side of the face, knocking his cheekbone and catching his nose. Instant tears filled his vision and his breath caught at the sharp pain racing up into his brain.

Greg caught the left foot. Or rather, his ear did. The heel whacked him squarely at the side of the head and he fell off the bed with a loud 'oomph!'. He lay stunned for a moment, hearing only a distinct ringing sound which he knew was not coming from somewhere in the room. It was like someone had turned his ears from stereo to mono.

“It’s in my eye! Fuck, that stings!” whimpered John, trapped in a rictus of pain, his sticky face screwed up, eyes watering profusely to rid themselves of unwanted salty protein.

Mycroft clasped at his own face, wincing and curling in on himself. “Ow, my ndose! Chrisht!”

“Eh? Can’t hear a thing! Is everyone all right?!” shouted Greg, dazedly picking himself up off the floor.

“I’m all right,” said Sherlock vacantly, regarding the Brueghel-esque scene before him in utter confusion. That hadn’t gone as well as he hoped it would.

He checked himself for injuries, just in case. But no. He was fine. He’d managed to fall back against the headboard and slide safely onto his bottom just as John succumbed to the laws of physics. John was... John was not OK.

“Ow, oww!” groaned the primary victim of the latest erotic mishap at 221B. His breath caught at the intense pulling sensation in his now permanently arched back. “I’ve literally fucked myself!” 

He was completely helpless and tried to stay as still as possible.

Mycroft issued a deep, agonised groan of his own and sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped over his face. He looked up pitifully, unable for the moment to be of any use due to the intense throbbing of his nose and his blurred vision. He felt the site of his injury very gingerly, praying that it wasn’t broken. The last thing his nose needed was a break, in his opinion. He hissed in pained relief. Not broken. Just badly bruised, and likely to swell to unsightly proportions. Working from home this week, he decided. Then he pulled his hands away and blenched.

“Nosebleed! Nosebleed!” said Sherlock in alarm, pointing at his very pale, very grisly-looking brother. “Greg - nosebleed, bad back, spunk in the eye! Disaster!”

Greg cocked his head with a frown, with one hand clasped over his bad ear. He caught sight of the blood-stained Holmes and balked.

“Shit, you’re having a nosebleed, love!” he said, much too loudly.

“Keep your head forward, Myc,” said John in a voice thick with pain, entirely unable to stop himself being a battlefield medic. "Don't choke on it. Apply pressure - pinch the soft bit..."

“Need tissues, Gregory,” said Mycroft weakly, lowering his head between his legs to stop himself fainting as he carried out doctor's orders.

Sherlock giggled inappropriately. “Don’t you try to suck yourself off too, brother.”

He shut his mouth at the menacing glares he received from his suddenly humourless lovers.

“Here, you need tissues!” Greg passed the box over to Mycroft, who began dabbing the gory mess off himself.

“I need one, I can't see a thing!” said John, opening and closing his hand, unable for the moment to reach out for fear of setting off another circuit of pain.

Sherlock grabbed some out of the box and began mopping up John’s plastered face, feeling somewhat…odd…that much of the splatter was his doing. What was that feeling in his stomach, he wondered?

_Oh. Guilt. Yuck._

“Ice pack, Greg!” shouted Sherlock, at the top of his voice.

John flinched at the volume and then wished he hadn’t.

Greg gave him a thumbs up. He’d just about heard that one, but even if he hadn’t, he had already identified the need.

He raced for the kitchen, shaking his throbbing head to try and stop the infernal tinnitus. He pulled out a sports injury pack from the freezer, and a pack of frozen peas. He wrapped them both in tea towels and ran back to the accident zone.

Sherlock was, against all requests, attempting to be helpful.

“Ow, don’t move me, that’s fucking agony! Just let me lie here and die!” John demanded. "It is my right as a British citizen to refuse treatment!"

Greg scowled and flapped his hand at their youngest and least-equipped-to-deal-with-a-minor-crisis lover.

“Off, you. Go and sit quietly next to Mycie. Keep passing the tissues. Mycie, keep your head forward,” he instructed, voice slightly lower now that his hearing was on the way back. He felt like he was at work.

Sherlock pouted as he was handed the pack of frozen peas. Before he could attempt any other bit of ghastly first aid, they were grabbed off him by his brother, who held them tenderly to his thankfully no-longer-bleeding nose.

Sherlock sighed and put an arm round him, while Greg dealt with Autofellatio Apocalypse.

When John had sufficiently calmed down, and when the shock had worn off a bit, Greg helped him roll carefully over onto his stomach, and placed the ice pack where John indicated. The man who was both patient and doctor panted at the effort, trying to suss out how much difficulty he might be in.

“Need us to ring for an ambulance, love?” Greg asked with concern.

John shook his head.

“Nope. Think it’s just a muscular thing," he said, grimacing. "Wouldn’t be the first time. I'd say it was a heroic war wound, but it's just wear and tear from heavy bloody packs. I’ll see how it is in a few hours. Are you OK?”

Greg nodded.

“Got a thumping headache, but I'll live.”

“I'm so sorry! And Mycie, bloody hell, you poor sod. Couldn’t stop myself falling!”

Mycroft waved away the apology and smiled a watery smile.

"Doh, doh, I'll be allrighd, Dohnny. Id's nod brokend."

"Thank God. Wouldn't want to ruin your dashing good looks, would I?" he said, gallantly, making Mycroft blush.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” interrupted Sherlock, matter-of-factly. “What?! Don’t look at me like that. I advised against this whole thing, and I was correct do to so! T11 and T12!”

“Not helpful!” griped John, tersely.

Greg turned his full attention to the younger Holmes, who suppressed a gulp.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking letting him try?!”

“Don’t shout at me, Lestrade!" shouted Sherlock. "He wanted to suck himself off. Watson’s a stubborn arsehole, you know he is. I was just being nice, humouring him! Anyway, Mycie joined in and so did you. It’s not my fault you’re a load of hopeless klutzes!”

“Me?! I amb a bictim of this bebacle!” protested Mycroft, irritated that his pronunciation was so woefully compromised. It was all most undignified.

Greg held up a hand to prevent further incomprehensible remarks.

“You let go of his legs, Lock,” he admonished, eyeing up the unscathed and self-righteous lad before him.

Sherlock was outraged.

“It was an accident! I was wanking. His stupid back gave out. I knew it would! He should do more yoga! Yoga helps with flexibility...”

John moaned.

“Please shut up! Can’t you go and have a row in the other room?” he begged.

Greg shrugged. “We’ll wake the babygirl. Think we’ll have to have it here. Then we’ll leave you in peace.” He turned grimly back to Sherlock. “Once the spanking is over.”

“Gregory!” exclaimed Lock with a livid pout. “I don’t want a sp… You can’t do that!”

Greg raised an eyebrow at the backchat. “Can’t I? What do you reckon, Mycie? Can I?”

Mycroft considered the question.

“Well… He was aiding and abetting reckless behaviour…,” he said, evenly, succeeding in enunciating more clearly this time.

Sherlock gesticulated with wild arms, throwing them wide to communicate just how dreadfully unjust this whole witch-hunt was.

“You horrible brother, Mycroft Holmes! It wasn’t even my behaviour, it was John’s!”

Mycroft frowned. “You set a bad example with your obscene self-love methods. Appalling!”

“You love it!” accused Sherlock, accurately. “Greg should punish _you_ for not stopping me all these years. If anything you’ve led me astray. It’s _your_ fault I’m so appalling!”

“That is besides the point!” retorted Mycroft, in the absence of any better argument.

Sherlock glared at them furiously. “It was John’s whole idea in the first place! He wanted to copy me. I told him he couldn’t do it!”

“Exactly the response calculated to make him try,” said Mycroft, with a glint of knowing triumph. “And John is being punished enough. I admit I was less than responsible in my encouragement of the, erm, really very intriguing proposition. And Gregory, you didn’t exactly foresee…” He balked as Greg put his hands on his hips and gave him a rather threatening stare. “Yes, well, perhaps we won’t go into that. We’ve all suffered for our misjudgement. You, baby brother, have not.”

Sherlock stamped his foot. “Not fair! Just because I'm not an accident-prone idiot who gets in the way of flying clodhoppers!”

“Life ain't fair, baby,” agreed Greg, sitting in the armchair at the opposite side of the room. “Now come here and take your medicine.”

“Ooh, but…”

“Think of it as an act of solidarity," said Greg. "All for one, one for all. John’s back hurts, my head hurts, Mycie’s nose hurts, and now your bum is gonna hurt.”

“Rotten logic!”

“Tough luck. Unless…” Greg paused for thought, and smiled to himself. Sherlock did not like that smile. It never boded well for his backside.

“OK. Here’s a better idea. You’re so keen on doing things to yourself, and encouraging others to take matters into their own…well, mouths, hands, whatever. Why don’t you spank yourself?”

Lock’s mouth dropped open in sheer scandal.

John emitted a low chuckle which Sherlock was pleased to note ended in a hiss of pain.

“I am not going to spank _myself_!” he declared slowly, pulling himself up to his full height with deliberate and sincere resentment. “That is a ridiculous suggestion with which I shall never comply!”

He tossed his head, determined to emerge from this encounter intact and full of quiet dignity.

Mycroft was regarding Gregory with awe. “Oh, what a marvellous notion. I've never thought of that before. You are quite ingenious, my love.”

Greg gave a humble shrug. “Cheers, doll. It's a knack.”

“No chance!” repeated Sherlock with a smirk. “And you can’t make me either.”

“Sure?” checked Greg, with the air of a negotiator on his final offer. “And you absolutely refuse to go over my knee?”

“I utterly and totally refuse, forever and ever, amen!”

“OK,” said Greg, clapping his hands together. “Chastity belt it is.”

“What?!” shrieked Sherlock, his horror ratcheting up to Hammer-like proportions.

Greg nodded definitively.

“Yep. No orgasms for…three days. To teach you to value your wanking habits, not take them for granted or flaunt them just to wind John up. Because Johnnyboy won’t be able to do anything for a while either, will he? Now he’s bloody semi-paralysed?”

Sherlock frowned a little anxiously at that. “He’ll be OK though, won’t he?”

“Don’t be daft, of course I will!” called John from the bed, unable to twist round to look at anyone. “But I’m definitely not going to be able to do any wanking. Or anything much else for a bit.”

“But Greg, I hate the cage!” whinged Lock, softening slightly. Because, really - poor John.

“I know,” said Greg, maintaining his stern persona. “So choose. Over my knee for a dose of the slipper; spanking your own bottom until I tell you to stop; or locking your naughty bits up for three days.”

Sherlock grimaced and twisted on the spot, kicking one foot against the back of his calf as he considered his terrible options.

“Spnmsf…,” he mumbled eventually.

“Beg yours?”

“I’ll spank myself, all right?!” he ground out through gritted teeth.

Mycroft chuckled and Sherlock shot daggers at him.

“Shut up, Mycroft, just you shut right up!”

Greg smiled with excessive pleasantry.

“Mind your manners, lad. Right. Bend over where you are, and give yourself a ruddy good hiding. If you stint on it you’ll get it off me anyway, and I won't go easy.”

Greg sat back and gestured for his mortified lover to turn around and carry on.

Sherlock blushed red and bent over, presenting his unblemished bottom cheeks, muttering to himself that he was a fool and an idiot, and that he should just flounce out of here right now and never come back. But he didn’t. He cringed at the sight he must make – grateful that John could only hear this rather than see it – and raised his right hand high over his arse. He bit his lip and let it fall weakly onto his rounded flesh, hoping to make enough noise to convince Greg that he was doing it properly. Predictably, the strategy failed.

“Harder than that, my boy. Wouldn’t hurt a gnat, that.”

Sherlock glared over his shoulder in disgust.

He raised his hand again, feeling like a complete dickhead, and smacked himself properly. It hurt and it was weird. He did it again. Yep. Weird. His hand and his bum stung simultaneously.

“Carry on,” instructed Greg, waving his hand.

Mycroft tried very hard indeed not to laugh. He really, truly did. But he couldn’t help it. He emitted a short sharp bark, which to Sherlock’s great satisfaction obviously caused his nose to hurt and Greg to look at him in warning.

Mycroft flushed and clamped a hand over his nose and mouth for safety.

Sherlock shot him another killing look of mingled betrayed rage and smug triumph. Then he resigned himself to making a complete spectacle, and set about spanking himself pink. He could feel that he was leaving hand prints on his own buttocks, and both sets of his cheeks burned with humiliation - which was mostly, about 80%, unpleasant. The remaining 20% was quite intriguing. And a bit...exciting.

“Hurt yet?” enquired Greg, casually.

“Yes,” mumbled Sherlock, with a theatrically mournful air. He hoped he made a pitiful sight and would be let off early. 

“Don’t believe you," said Greg, thwarting the attempt at sympathy-building. "Do it harder and faster. Like I would.”

“Greg! This is awful!” complained Lock, obeying nonetheless.

Greg nodded with a bright smile. “I know.”

Sherlock gave in and just did as he was told. He walloped himself sore until he couldn’t help but cry out.

“Ow! Can I stop now?! It’s horrible…” he whimpered, pathetically. “I’m…sorry I goaded John into sucking his own – ow – cock. And I won’t do it myself anymore!”

Greg huffed with affection.

“Aw, that won’t be necessary, sweetheart. Just show off about it less, yeah? And don’t bloody let go of someone with a bad back when you’re supposed to be holding them upright!”

“Yes! Sorry! I’ll show off about it less, and be more considerate in future. Ooh, ouch!”

Lock exclaimed loudly as he gave himself two very hard final whacks, almost as though his hand was working of its own volition or being somehow puppeteered by Lestrade's.

_Bloody subconscious desire to please!_

“Good lad,” crooned Greg, genuinely sympathetic and warm now. “You’re done. You can stop tanning that pretty little peach of yours. Honour is satisfied. Come here, lovely.”

He stood and beckoned him over.

Sherlock dragged his heels with an air of profound sheepishness and Greg grabbed him into a cuddle. He was too embarrassed to look up just yet, and he went all floppy as he was kissed on his burning hot face. Mycroft joined them, and rubbed at his brother's sore bottom soothingly until they led him over to the bed.

John turned his head with a grimace and chuckled fondly.

“Bet you’re glad I couldn’t see that,” he grinned, impishly. “Hope you didn’t weren’t too hard on yourself.”

Sherlock shook his head frantically, ears bright red, and quickly lay down on his tummy next to his injured lover, trying not to jostle the bed at all. He hid his face in the pillow, then turned to the side with a wry smile as he felt John’s hand interlock with his own and stroke tiny circles on it with his thumb.

"I thought you did auto very well, John," husked Sherlock, sweetly. John beamed.

“Right,” said Greg, looking fondly down at the pair of sexually adventurous miscreants. “Nap time all round while Rosie’s still asleep. Me and Myc can go in your bed, John. We’ve been up since five! I’ll grab you some painkillers and water. No more silly buggers for a while, eh?”

“Nope,” agreed John. “Not gonna be up to silliness or buggery for a few days at least. Is your ear all right, love? Haven’t perforated your eardrum, have I?” he said with some concern.

Greg shook his head. “It’s stopped ringing now. Be a while ‘til I go mutton. Couple of years before you have to buy me an ear trumpet.”

“Mutton?” queried Sherlock, puzzled at the rhyming slang.

“Mutt and Jeff. Deaf,” explained Greg. “Though don’t ask me why.”

“I believe it was a popular comic strip in the early 20th century, Gregory,” intervened Mycroft. But he broke off, seeing that perhaps the explanation was not particularly interesting or welcome at this point. “Never mind.”

Mycroft leaned down to stroke at the back of John’s thick hair, and then at his brother’s dark curls.

Lock hummed softly and the pair of supine flatmates exhaled deeply in contentment, visibly relaxing under the loving touch. Greg petted them in the same way, soothing them until they began to drift off to sleep together.

He pointed to the door and winked at Mycroft, who smiled and followed him out.

“The things we do to ourselves for a little thrill,” whispered the elder Holmes, shaking his head in despair. “Autofellatio. I ask you. The trouble is, he is very talented at it...”

Greg closed the bedroom door as quietly as possible.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Bet I could do it too, though. Fancy holding my legs?”

**Author's Note:**

> Please do comment if this has made you smile at any point. Love you for reading. No, seriously, I love you. xxx


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